“I need someone
a person to talk to
someone who'd care to love
could it be you
could it be yo-ou
The situation gets rough,
and I start to panic
it's not enough
it's just a habit
and, kid, you're sick
darling this is it…”
Catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror to her red Convertible, Buffy grimaced. She looked like a goddamn raccoon and it was all his fault! Some publicist I am. No, Angel, you should do a movie with her! She’ll make your career skyrocket! Yeah, and she’ll make our relationship perish. Bitch.
“Well you can all just kiss off into to the air
behind my back
I can see them stare
They'll hurt me bad, but I won't mind
They'll hurt me bad, they do it all the time
Yeah, yeah
Yeah, they do it all the time
Yeah, yeah
They do it all the time
Yeah, yeah
They do it all the time
Do it all the time!”
She growled, brushing her long, blond locks from her face. The wind blowing from the top being down in her car was causing her hair to get stuck in the tears that wet her face. And just how long had he been doing it? He had to have been fucking around before. Just had to. Three years, three goddamn years and he throws it away on that whore Cordelia Chase? That fucking ass…
“I hope you know that this will go down on your permanent
record!
Oh yeah?
Well don't get so distressed
Did I happen to mention that I’m impressed?
I take one, one, one cause you left me and
two, two, two for my family and
three, three, three for my heartache and
four, four, four for my headaches and
five, five, five for my lonely and
six, six, six for my sorrow and
seven, seven, for no tomorrow and
eight, eight I forget what eight was for and
nine, nine, nine for the lost gods
ten, ten, ten, ten for everything, everything, everything!”
God, I knew he’d screw me somehow. I just knew it. What did I expect? He’s like a younger Warren Beatty: a player. That jackass, I made him who he is, I fucking made him!
“Well you can all just kiss off into to the air
behind my back
I can see them stare
They'll hurt me bad, but I won't mind
They'll hurt me bad, they do it all the time
Yeah, yeah
Yeah they do it all the time
Yeah, Yeah
Yeah they do it all the time
do it all the time
do it all the time
do it all the time
do it all the time
do it all the time
time, time, time, time
t-t-t-t-t- time, time time
do it all the time!”
Catching her breath from singing, Buffy flipped back to the beginning of the song as the sign she’d been waiting to see as some kind of Nirvana came into sight.
Welcome to Sunnydale!
Buffy murmured to herself as she pulled toward the familiar street that once upon a time she’d frequented on a daily basis. “Oh God, please let him save me, please…”
William “Spike” Pratt grumbled to himself as he grabbed the last beer out of the fridge and contemplated heading out for more before guzzling this one down. He was nowhere near inebriated and inebriated was where he wanted to be. He’d had a shit day.
He’d lost his job that day. Or, as his editor-in-chief had put it, he was to take a ‘leave of absence’. A paid leave of absence, but it was not something Spike wanted to do. He was not a man to sit around and waste away. He loved his job. Okay, so he didn’t love his job, but he didn’t hate it either. It gave him experience; it got him out in the world, and allowed him to dabble in the entertainment world without actually having to be completely immersed in it. Even if he was admittedly drawn to it; both drawn to it, and scared of it.
He worked for the local newspaper, Sunnydale News, reporting on underground bands that visited the area. The club in town, The Bronze was place muck like Mama Kin’s in Boston: some big bands had started there, and therefore, the club had become kind of the rabbit foot of venues. Sometimes he was able to acquire access to the big shows in L.A. as well.
It was in Spike’s blood to not only write, but to be part of the music scene. Hell, it was the closest thing to actually being in the band he’d dreamt of being in as a kid. As a matter of fact, he had been in a band, but it hadn’t exactly worked out as all the band members got married and moved away, not really sharing the dream of becoming famous that Spike had had.
That day his editor had claimed he’d lost some of his edge. His writing wasn’t up to par; there were too many mistakes and flubs, the flow of his usual flawless writing was off, and he thought it best that Spike take some time off to rest and recuperate, hopefully get back his old magic.
Maybe this is just what I need. Maybe its not that my writing is really floundering, but maybe this is just the time I need to do what I want to do: get back to playing guitar. Maybe write some music and start a band again. I bet Harris would want to. I’ve seen him do drums, he’s good. With a little prodding and some sucking up to Anya, maybe we could do something with our instruments instead of just letting them collect dust.
He was just about to dive into his recurring fantasy of screaming fans clamoring for more from him, women fainting as he grinned at them, and men looking up to him as though he were a Rock God, when a loud, even knock came from the door.
Grumbling once more, Spike made his way to the door and whipped the door open. “Sod--” he stopped abruptly and his eyes widened as he took in the blond before him.
She had dark circles under her eyes—literally. It looked as if she’d drawn heavy eyeliner under her eyes and it had all melted nearly down to her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was mussed. He barely recognized the girl he’d known for so long.
“Buffy?”
“Hi!” she greeted him, smiling brightly. “Have some time for an old friend?”
**Song "Kiss Off" by Violent Femmes**